Aboard the Democracy Train (22 page)

After many weeks, Jamali had surfaced before a court in Lahore, Punjab, where he had obtained a conditional bail-before-arrest. The Punjab court had ruled however that he needed to reconfirm bail from a Karachi court a week later.

We correctly surmised that since the body had been found in District East, this meant the runaway assembly member was required to appear in front of the District and Sessions Judge from Karachi East. I wrote a news item in my newspaper, giving the date and place where the accused was scheduled to appear.

The British had built the district courts in Karachi with the kind of imposing architecture meant to inspire respect for rule of law. That lofty ideal has fallen by the way side. Located on the chaotic M. A. Jinnah Road, the tall granite buildings of these lower courts – complete with ornately carved balconies – are today besmirched with air and noise pollution. The inmates arrive packed like sardines in police vans…their chains clanking as they shuffle behind policemen. The court’s grandeur has given way to a bazaar scene.

Seated in the courtroom during hearings, with tattered window screens and pigeons hopping in and out, I used to wonder how the judges could remain independent and
dignified. Court clerks would step in the hallway and bellow the names of the parties involved – drawing out their names into lengthy syllables: “Ra – HEEM – Baksh Ja – MA – Lee”.

The scene was reminiscent of a crowded railway station in South Asia, where vendors peddle their wares. Even the black-robed lawyers who argued before the district judges were poorly qualified and often spoke the court language – English – with comical results.

But that day, when the educated elite of Karachi thronged the court to hear the case entitled “State vs Rahim Baksh Jamali,” the atmosphere was different. Many observers had read the case’s intimate details in the press. Late Fauzia’s brother, Javed was there. As our eyes met, I saw his wonder that so many people had come out to hear his sister’s murder case.

All eyes turned to the dark, balding Jamali as he slunk into the courtroom. He looked visibly dismayed at the sight of so many spectators crammed inside.

The courtroom drama was completed as Khawaja Naveed, the self-appointed lawyer for the victim’s family, bounced into the court and began reading the confession of the Jamali driver, Mohammed Ishaq, in a loud voice to give the gory details of the murder. Naveed was a famously flamboyant lawyer, youthful looking, with a curly lock of hair on his forehead and a ready laughter.

I understood his need to capture the limelight after a subsequent visit to his office. There on his table was a prominently displayed photograph of him where he appeared standing next to a cardboard image of US President Ronald Reagan – the president’s arm around him.

Twelve years later, Naveed bounced with the same gaiety to defend American journalist Daniel Pearl’s alleged killers. In both Fauzia and Daniel’s case, he exited once the media lights were turned off.

But, at Jamali’s bail-before-arrest hearing, Naveed’s theatrical performance was heard in all seriousness. Although he merely read the evidence recorded by Jamali’s driver, Mohammed Ishaq in front of a judicial magistrate, the facts of
the case were dramatic enough to keep everyone’s attention. With eager scrutiny, men and women watched Judge Rehmat Hussein Jafri ponder the merits of the case. The accused stood sullenly – aware that the Sindh police waited outside in full force to arrest him.

The deliberation took several hours. The overflow turnout of the crowd and their interest bowled me over. I never imagined that the city elite would wait for hours to hear a judgment from the court. Finally, the judge looked up from his pince-nez spectacles and pronounced the verdict: “Bail denied.”

Photographers and reporters struggled to capture Jamali’s response as he was handcuffed and led to the awaiting police van bound for Karachi Central Jail. History had been made as a sitting MPA was sent to prison.

There was huge relief on Javed’s face as the verdict was announced. His was a Herculean task: to achieve what the civilized world takes for granted – getting justice through public institutions. Instead of retaliating with a tribal act of revenge, the victim’s brother had mobilized society to follow the rule of law.

Buoyed by the victory, human rights organizations rallied around Javed to find him a lawyer. The Citizens Police Liaison Committee (CPLC) – a powerful organization, initiated by then PPP Governor, Fakhruddin G. Ebrahim to fight crime – used its leverage with the government to secure the appointment of a trusted high court lawyer, Syed Sami Ahmed as special public prosecutor to argue on behalf of the victim’s family.

A senior, capable lawyer, Sami Ahmed brought an imposing presence to the lower courts – impressing judges who were far junior to him in the profession. Tall, well-built and always impeccably dressed in well-tailored suits, he spoke in clipped sentences. His special appointment had done away the need for public prosecutors, whose pittance earnings from the government made them a rapacious breed.

The first sign of the rotting system came when police took the jailed Jamali for two weeks of questioning. This process, called a
police remand, is routinely followed to extract information from the accused. The application for police remand had been moved by Sami Ahmed to lay the basis for trial.

To everybody’s shock, after the two weeks of “questioning” Jamali came to court looking fat and rested. “It’s as though he had gone for a sauna,” – a bewildered Javed said.

Human rights activists came to the hearings, their presence meant to monitor the proceedings. But Jamali refused to sit in the prosecution box. Instead, he wore a black coat worn by all lawyers and sat in the front row – reserved for attorneys. On occasion, I saw an honest judge snap at him and warn him to take the designated stand.

Still, the accused sidled up to the human rights activists. As they moved away, he told a woman friend, “You all look at me as though I’m a murderer.”

Using one pretext or another, the accused continually managed to get the hearings adjourned. Almost effortlessly, it seemed, he manipulated jail officials, doctors, witnesses, police and government prosecutors. Often, he would not be brought from Karachi Central Jail…the excuse being that jail vehicles or police escorts were not available. At other times, his lawyer didn’t show up or came with a medical certificate that claimed that the accused was too sick to come to court.

Even judges were occasionally frustrated by the corruption and inefficiency in the judicial system. Like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, the players in the trial – complainant, accused and witnesses – have to be physically present in court for a hearing to take place. By playing the system, the accused managed to get repeated adjournments, resulting in the production of only one or two witnesses in an entire year.

As Jamali went to prison, members of his clan visited the aggrieved Bhutto family to mediate an age-old solution to
a modern crisis. They told Javed – the head of the Bhutto household – that the MPA had confessed to having murdered Fauzia and now wanted to pay the price.

The “price” according to the Baloch tribal custom, would be decided by a
jirga
– a council of tribal elders. Among their suggestions for this price was to offer a woman (or women) from the Jamali family to the Bhuttos in “exchange” for Fauzia’s murder. They suggested that Javed or one of his brothers marry a woman from the Jamali tribe and treat her in the way they saw fit.

These are the horrifying traditions that the tribal societies have lived with for centuries. I encountered cases in rural Sindh where a tribesman who murdered his wife on suspicion of infidelity could get a woman from the “offending tribe” to serve as his wife or slave. With endemic corruption, the murderers simply paid off the police and escaped punishment.

But the Jamali tribe was barking up the wrong tree. Javed showed the tribesmen the door, saying that as a modern man he had no place for such anachronisms. Although born and raised in a small town in Sindh, he believed in the equality of women. More practically, he had joined hands with civil society in Karachi to make public institutions work for the common good.

By 1991, a year after Jamali was indicted, Javed taught in the philosophy department of Sindh University, Jamshoro. His university was about 150 km from Karachi. He had built the department by convincing students from Sindh to become interested in studying western philosophy.

The hearings brought him regularly to Karachi. Afterwards, the two of us would meet for lunch at the Karachi Press Club, sip tea on the lawns and in addition to the case discuss the history and politics of Sindh.

In those days, Javed was a chain smoker who thought in an almost cyclical fashion, as he reached out for a match and lit up before he started a new sentence. Although I was opposed to smoking, I put that aside for the time being and listened to him
in fascination. We both looked forward to the time together as a respite from the somber reality of the trial.

Every year or so, I would try to visit friends in the US to keep in touch with my old university life in Boston. When I went for a visit in 1991, I confided in a dear American girl friend about my feelings for Javed.

I had met Jane Pipik when she and I had both volunteered for a bi-weekly radio show called Women’s Network News at
WBAI
radio station in New York. I was one of its reporters and she was the sound engineer for the show. Although we were raised on opposite ends of the world, we bonded as women working in male-dominated professions.

Jane encouraged me to follow my heart. Then in my thirties, I had long diverged from the marital path followed by my school friends and invested instead in my career. Reporting – and its importance in bringing change in a developing country like Pakistan – was so overpowering that I was not ready for another dramatic change. Moreover, though Javed and I had moved toward a new level of friendship, his shy, introverted nature never let me glimpse what he actually thought.

Jane – whose own marriage was a success – passionately tried to convince me across long car drives in Boston to probe into whether my relationship with Javed could grow into a life-long relationship. I was still thinking about the possibilities when I received a postcard from him in New York.

“Nothing is the same at the old haunts in Karachi without you,” he wrote – signed J. B.

Electrified, I suddenly realized that life many not be the same anymore. I called up Jane. She knew what it meant. Given Javed’s quiet, reserved nature, we talked about what a leap it must have been for him to have written such a card.

When I flew back home and we met, he seemed visibly overjoyed to see me. Still, neither of us would express our feelings.
I took a bold step. As I drove my car in Karachi…with him sitting besides me… I glanced over and asked,

“If the case ends, will you ever call me again?”

“Of course,” he said.

He said it with so much emotion – I knew it to be true.

After so many years, neither of us honestly remembers who proposed. My family, who had resigned themselves to my independent high-wire acts, was convulsed with happiness as I announced I had found the right person.

True to his nature, my father wanted to show he was still in charge. In a society where marriages are arranged, or only take place with family consent, he said he would have to meet Javed before agreeing to my choice.

On that fateful day, Javed, slender and youthful, arrived with his hair brushed back – hopeful of making a good impression on my family. Seated across from him, I saw his trepidation as my father grilled him about his family background. My father would leave me on tenterhooks even after Javed left, saying he would take some time to give his “considered verdict.”

Of course, my father gave the nod that Javed’s family could come to our house to talk about the potential for the marriage. In that unforgettable meeting between both families, my father talked about everything on earth except the subject at hand. My sister and mother were growing nervous. My father always did love to extend the drama of the moment. He ended it with a flourish by saying, “Congratulations on the engagement of Javed and Nafisa.”

The next six months of my life would be the happiest. We strolled along the Arabian Sea, where even the usual sight of the waves that ran amok under clear blue skies filled me with a joyous sense of well being.

Mostly, I was busy working – but at home, my family planned a big wedding. My father daily drew up guest lists and
then tore them up as the family argued over whom to invite. Given the size of our family, it was no easy feat and we had to reduce the guest list to 600 people. The wedding reception was to be held in a huge football field. My father took volunteers on site for months ahead of time and made sure everything was perfect on the big day.

In August 1990, as Benazir Bhutto’s government was sacked, the incumbent PPP legislators were automatically unseated. It was a bad year for Jamali. Not only had he lost his seat in parliament, but he was also in prison for murder.

Under Pakistan’s legal code, an accused is entitled to bail within two years unless it can be proved that he performed a heinous crime. While Jamali was in prison, he tried to use money and influence to secure his release through the high court. But his attempts were blocked by human rights activists, whose lawyer, Syed Sami Ahmed skillfully convinced the judge to deny him bail. Jamali remained in prison for two years for Fauzia’s murder.

In early 1992, a district and sessions judge had solicited Javed, saying he had received Jamali’s bail application seeking release through the lower court.

“What do you think I should do with it,” the judge asked Javed in the presence of a court clerk.

It was clear to Javed that the judge would rule in favor of whoever paid him the most money. Bravely he replied, “I came here to get justice. I expect to get justice from the court.”